


Our Prayer

by wargoddess



Series: Bearding the Lion in His Den [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asphyxiation, BDSM, Choking, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Light Sadism, M/M, No Safeword, Rape Roleplay, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8457919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: Cullen is a monster, but why should that trouble Dorian?  Dorian simply adores monsters.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cypheroftyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypheroftyr/gifts).



> You should probably read "To Beard the Lion" first, but if you'd rather not, the gist is that I can't see Inquisition!Cullen being anywhere near as psychologically healthy as he is in canon, so I headcanon that his years in the Gallows have left him with a taste for dominating mages. Dorian thinks this is just delightful.
> 
> The warning is because this whole series is all about dubious consent. And this particular episode features a sexual practice that is highly dangerous, done without a real safeword (I don't think Dorian would be able to set Cullen's hair on fire in the moment, but I suppose that applies to any gesture used in lieu of words, too), amid a relationship that I suspect is toeing the line of "unhealthy." But despite all this, I wanted to show a tender moment between them. Of course it's going to be just a little fucked up.

It's Trevelyan who sets the whole thing off. Of course. The boor must be feeling charitable -- or drunk, more likely, given the amount of ale and better-than-usual-quality wine that's flowing freely in Skyhold's main hall for the night. Dorian's kept himself to only two glasses so far, which is positively _Andrastean_ of him, though if he's honest it's really because he's hoping not to spend the evening alone. Cullen cares if Dorian is too drunk to coherently say no; Cullen always needs for Dorian to be able to say no. He doesn't particularly care if Dorian is too drunk to do more than lie there while Cullen avails himself of the charms of Dorian's body.

This is mostly because he knows, by now, that Dorian rather likes being availed-upon. There's nothing quite so delightful or unique as waking in the dark to the now-familiar jingle of a belt being loosened in one's room, followed by a soft question in the dark: "Fore or aft?" Regardless of his answer, he knows that Cullen will drag him half off the bed and fuck him until they are both spent, then wipe him clean, tuck him back into bed, and leave him to return to sleep. The question just determines the position and type of fucking -- face-down or face-up? Teeth on the back of his neck or the tendons in front? A hot tongue dancing along his cleft or a hot mouth swallowing his cock? Oiled fingers opening up his arse for thorough rutting or oiled fingers closing 'round them both for violent frotting? On these occasions, Cullen does not bother to ask if Dorian is willing because half of Cullen does not _care_ if Dorian is willing. The other half of him, which is usually the part that's in charge, thank the Maker, is what makes sure Dorian is always able to say no.

He is the most complicated lover Dorian's ever had, and Dorian adores him on every level -- the challenge, the unpredictability, and most of all the tenderness that Cullen never means to show and yet cannot seem to help doing. This is probably why, when Trevelyan asks Dorian about his post-Corypheus plans, Dorian thinks of Cullen and aches with preemptive loss. The sorrow makes him stupidly speak the truth: that he still means to return to and reform Tevinter, but he cannot bear to do it yet. Trevelyan, who doesn't like him much, reacts with momentary pity, to his credit. This is intolerable. Dorian tries to play it off.

"You know how it is," he says, and laughs, as if everyone has a lover like Cullen.

It's too light a dismissal, too flippant for the reality and weight of their relationship, and guiltily Dorian finds himself glancing toward Cullen in hopes that Cullen did not hear. Cullen is standing alone on the other side of the hall, smiling into his cup while, nearby, Josephine and Leliana bicker over whether the catering is perfect or merely good. Trevelyan follows Dorian's look, too, and smirks, which makes Dorian hate the man even more. He's thinking about making a tactical mistake, saying something rude to Trevelyan about his rutting with Cassandra, but he cannot do this if he needs both the Inquisition and the southern Chantry as allies when he goes home. Then Cullen looks back at him. It is a sidelong look, hooded and enigmatic, so perfectly neutral that Dorian thinks, _Sweet Maker, he'd fit right into that pit of vipers back home_.

It isn't a comforting thought, and worse, it makes the little hairs prickle along the back of Dorian's neck with foreboding. Because that look also means that Cullen heard him.

In the wake of a chill, Dorian mouths small talk that is cordial enough to leave no bridges burned. Trevelyan says something encouraging -- he does _try_ , he just fails so often and so miserably -- and wanders off. Someone on the other side of the room drops a glass and Dorian looks to see who has been so gauche. When he looks back, Cullen has gone.

Everyone knows about Dorian and Cullen. When Dorian makes an excuse after a suitable length of time and heads for the door, he catches a few looks. One is from the Iron Bull, who has been open about his disapproval of the relationship. Thinks Dorian and Cullen aren't good for each other, won't do anything but feed one another's worst impulses. He's right, but Dorian doesn't see anything wrong with bad impulses; it is controlling those impulses which makes life so interesting. And how does one find control without testing boundaries? Regardless, he ignores them all and heads out.

Cullen isn't in his tower. Not even up the ladder, which is frustrating because it forces Dorian to go up the ladder to check. So Dorian heads back to his own quarters. Cullen isn't there waiting for him in the shadows -- that's happened once or twice, before Dorian warned that he wouldn't be responsible for any reflexive fireballs in the genitals. So Dorian locks the door (Cullen has the only other key, the better to walk into Dorian's room, and unbuckle his belt, and ask a quiet question) and lies down on the bed, and tries not to think and then utterly fails.

It isn't that he _wants_ to go back home. He might miss warm weather and decent food and being treated like a human being worthy of basic rights and respect, certainly. In Tevinter, however, he will also have to pretend that he doesn't notice the slaves. Which he _will_ notice, because Trevelyan's moralistic prattling hasn't entirely fallen on deaf ears; that's why he's going back. And back home he will have to get used to having someone taste his food before he consumes it, and back home he will have to be diplomatic and not run off to drink himself sick in brothels when he's done with everyone's shit -- not if he wants to win the game of politics. Because _somebody's_ going to have to make Tevinter better, and if not him then whom? Maker, he'll probably have to take over his father's seat in the Magisterium eventually, won't he? And buy a great many more chocolates for Maevaris.

And in Tevinter, he will need to start pretending that he doesn't enjoy having a man hold him down and lick along his spine and delve into his body like a fortune-finding expedition to the Deep Roads. Pretend that he craves anything but a man's strong arms wrapped around him, and a man's deep voice murmuring commands in his ear, and a man's callused hands stroking him and holding him firm, anchoring him to the world, while he shudders himself to sleep.

He will need to start pretending that he doesn't want _one man_ doing these things. And that will be hardest of all.

When an hour passes with no Cullen, Dorian gives up pretending to sleep, rising and fiddling with his moustache and polishing his staff and generally trying not to feel nervous. Another hour and it is clear: Cullen's not coming. Dorian doesn't know what to do with that. Cullen is emotionally erratic; he doesn't dance quite so firmly on the line of stress fracture as he did while the lyrium withdrawal was at its worst, and he no longer shoves Dorian up against walls over minor misunderstandings, but he can still be quite unpredictable. And yet he is reliable in one way: when they have free time and the world can be trusted not to fall apart for a while, Cullen takes him. Over the chaise, while he moans as loudly as he can to warn the aides not to come into Cullen's office. Up the ladder in his bedroom while the aides come and go below. Once a brutal mouth-fuck in one of the abandoned towers after Dorian happened by and was pulled into it by surprise. Once on Cullen's desk in the small hours of the morning, with Cullen jerking him off in one hand and sipping tea with the other, scanning reports the whole time. Once while they were both standing on a little-used parapet because Dorian complained that he was cold, and wanted Cullen to cuddle him. (Cullen did, while holding a bearskin around them both. He just also kicked Dorian's legs apart and slicked them up with lamp oil and took him there, steady and slow, making Dorian groan out frosted breaths over a magnificent view of the mountain valley.) They are both healthy men, physically at least. It's something they both need, with death looming ever-near.

This thought stops Dorian in his tracks. He's not pacing. He never paces. _Plebians_ pace. But Maker. What if, now that Corypheus' threat has ended, Cullen... no longer needs him?

It shouldn't matter. Dorian has always known better than to expect more. It's just...

It doesn't matter.

Suddenly he cannot stay in his room a moment longer. He tears open the door and flings himself through it and storms through corridors and along parapets with hardly a thought of where he's doing. It doesn't matter where he's going. He just needs to move, to stop thinking. He needs liquor, sweet Maker he needs that, but the tavern and the main hall are full of people and he doesn't want to see anyone right now, doesn't want them to see him like this, doesn't want their _pity_ or their _amusement_ once they realize he's been discarded, doesn't want to hear their relieved whispers that at last the Commander has come to his senses, doesn't want reminders that it is over, done, and he will never see Cullen again once he's left this benighted icy _hole_ \--

And then Dorian is in the garden. It's empty; all the Chantry sisters are at the celebration. He doesn't remember how he got here. His room is up a level; lacking the ability to climb, to get there he needs to go back into the main hall and up the side-stair. The thought of doing this makes him ill. Maybe he'll curl up beneath that gazebo over there to sleep for the night, instead; Maker knows he's slept worse.

But. His gaze falls upon the door to Andraste's chapel. The ache inside him suddenly grows acute.

Dorian is not devout. He has never seen the point of prayer, or meditation, or any of the things that others seem to get out of faith. He has heard Cullen whisper prayers, usually when there are horrors in his mind and he needs to expunge those horrors in Dorian's willing flesh; Dorian knows that prayer is all that has kept Cullen from doing terrible things to him, on occasion. Dorian can recognize the power of prayer, as a gesture. It's just... intellectual, to him. Theoretical.

But the chapel will be warmer than the gazebo. And... and he has no liquor, no Cullen, no other lover to take his mind off Cullen. Nothing to ease the ache inside him, which if he holds still long enough, he will have to admit is grief. Perhaps if he prays for a solution to... No. Well. Perhaps.

So he goes to the chapel door. He's never been inside before, though he's seen through the open door when others go in. It's unlikely anyone will bother him there tonight, if he sleeps on one of the benches or the floor. The door is heavy; it takes a bit of wrestling to get it open. He manages, though, and --

And blurts, _"Cullen?"_ Because there's really no mistaking the figure who kneels there at Andraste's feet, even though his back is to the door.

Fur-clad shoulders relax, and Cullen's head turns just a little at the sound of Dorian's voice. He gets to his feet. "Dorian. What are you doing here?"

It's toneless, the verbal equivalent of the neutral expression he wore back in the main hall. Dorian's shock abruptly turns to unease, again. "I... I just happened by." Oh, that's weak. He reminds himself that he is Dorian Pavus, companion of the Inquisitor, one of the people who helped to slay Corypheus, Altus of a fine old bloodline. Even if he's not particularly interested in continuing that bloodline, that doesn't make him any less than what he is. So he straightens. "I've been wandering a bit, since it's clear I'm going to be left to my own devices, tonight."

There. Good. Just the right amount of vitriol edging the words. He's a beautiful man, damn it, and he should be in his own warm room with Cullen doing something lovely to him -- not here in the bloody _chapel_ playing a game whose rules he hasn't yet fathomed.

Cullen's head is turned just enough for Dorian to see the side of his smile. "Did you come to pray?"

"Of course not." It's reflexive, the lie. Dorian folds his arms over his chest and tries not to think of how easily Cullen has been able to see right through his bullshit on every previous occasion.

Sure enough, the smile spreads, and Cullen finally turns to face him. At which point Dorian becomes deeply confused, because the look on Cullen's face is -- strange. Stranger than usual. Warm, satisfied. Almost affectionate.

Before Dorian can fathom what the man is about, Cullen comes toward him. Dorian's whole body tingles, hungry, needing -- but Cullen moves past him. To the heavy door that is still, slowly, swinging shut. Cullen tugs it the rest of the way, and then... oh. He flips the bar on the door to seal it shut.

"I am glad you came," he says to the door, while Dorian stands there wondering whether he ought to be nervous.

"Yes. Well." He should try to be decent. "Is there, ah, something wrong? That you needed to, er, contemplate?"

"Yes." Cullen lifts a gauntleted hand and lays it on the door. Slides it down, slowly, almost a caress. If he wasn't doing it to a fucking door, Dorian would be intrigued. Well, he's intrigued anyway. Cullen's voice is so very soft. "There was... a matter that concerned me. I came here seeking guidance. A sign of what choice I should make."

Dorian reminds himself that there are consequences to choosing a lover who is mad by most textbook definitions of the word. "And did you?" he asks, trying for patience.

"Oh, yes." He turns back to Dorian, and this time the look on his face is familiar, dark and full of all the lovely, unspeakable thoughts that usually lurk beneath his surface. "You showed up, didn't you?"

With that, he turns and again moves past Dorian. (Again Dorian tenses in anticipation of his touch, and is left wanting.) He goes behind the statue for some reason that Dorian cannot fathom, then comes back out with -- oh. A bedroll, which he drags forth and then drops at the foot of the steps. Right in front of Andraste's statue. _Well_ , then. Is that what he's about?

Dorian finds his face hot. _Note to self: My Commander is even more perverse than I knew._ "So, er, you seem to have... planned this?"

Cullen stands beside the bedroll and starts removing his armor in that methodical way that Dorian is so familiar with: gauntlets and vambraces first, three straps on each. Then his fur mantle, folded neatly and never just flung aside. Lastly the breastplate, laid down with care for its polish. Cullen always does this slowly, when he bothers to undress all the way, because he needs that time. There is something in it of ritual, or meditation -- a shedding of inhibitions and fear, and the assumption of the iron self-control he will need to keep his worse impulses in check. He watches Dorian steadily, unblinkingly, as he performs each step.

"No," he says, in answer to Dorian's question. "But this is a castle full of war veterans. A bedroll is left in here in case a penitent needs the comfort of Andraste's presence to sleep."

Dorian blinks, then understands. "And you knew of it."

Mantle's down. Cullen starts working on the buckles of the breastplate. His smile is self-deprecating. "It was initially put in here after Mother Giselle found me curled on the steps one morning, with an awful crick in my neck." He pauses. "That was before you."

And before Giselle's opinion of Cullen plummeted as a result of Cullen's involvement with Dorian. "Ah. But I suppose then she couldn't remove the bedroll just because _you_ might use it, since others might."

Cullen's hands pause. Does his smile widen again, just a touch? "And she and her sisters use it, as well, when they have late duties. But I meant that I haven't needed it because I have you, instead."

Oh. "Happy to assist," Dorian says, reflexively flippant. He folds his arms and shifts his weight to one side, because sass is the resort of the anxious. "It's a lovely show, Commander, but is there something on your mind? Since I interrupted your praying, and all."

Breastplate's down. Cullen tugs off the leather shirt he wears as a gambeson, and then he's beautiful in just his shirt and leather trousers, toeing off his boots. The shirt is brown. It looks humble, but Dorian knows it actually takes rather a lot of expensive dye to achieve that particular deep shade, so it's actually yet another sign that Cullen is finally beginning to let his aides and Josephine advise him on looking the part of his station. It's so perfect a metaphor for Cullen: a veneer of simplicity over a truth that is rich and complex, and much darker than it seems on the surface.

Then Cullen strips off the shirt and tosses it aside, lovely or not, and begins unbuckling his belt. Dorian has an immediate reaction to this, doubtless trained into him by a hundred nights with nothing but that sound and blunt oiled fingers as foreplay, and he has to swallow and look away and focus.

Cullen answers his question just as Dorian remembers that he asked one. "I needed to decide what to do about you."

"About me -- " Oh. Dorian feels the weight of this abruptly bow his shoulders, snuffing out his libido like a douter on a candleflame. So it's time for this talk, then. "Ah."

"Ah." Cullen, to Dorian's surprise, is stepping out of the trousers. It's a magnificent sight, but -- Maker. They're in a well-lit chapel, in front of a statue of Andraste, and there's absolutely nothing selfconscious about the way Cullen straightens and runs a hand over his hair to make sure the shirt hasn't disturbed it. There shouldn't be any selfconsciousness to him; _fasta vass_ , he is lovely. But it isn't something Dorian's used to, seeing Cullen in the full buck, southerner pallor mitigated by surprisingly dark nipples, and even darker curls of hair below his navel. There's really no mistaking what's on his mind, with his cock full and flushed below the arrow of his abdominals and Girdle of Maferath. Dorian's seen statues, back in Tevinter, that weren't as perfect as this.

 _Focus._ Dorian takes a deep breath, bracing himself. He will lose this beauty, soon. He will lose Cullen, all the force and madness and passion of him, and though Dorian had hoped for longer, though he'd just hoped... But no, it is not to be. He will try for dignity, instead. "There's nothing to decide, Commander. I came to the south, to the Inquisition, to accomplish a goal. Now Corypheus is dead, order is being restored, I've acquitted myself as a representative of Tevinter who is at least moral where it counts, if not overall -- "

"And yet you, too, came here to pray," Cullen says.

Dorian freezes. For a horrifying instant he can't think of a thing to say to this. Anger is the resort of the anxious, too. "I came here because it was _warm_ , for the Maker's sake. I didn't feel like dealing with all those sycophants in the main hall, is all."

Cullen comes toward him, and brushes past him again. It's maddening, the way Dorian's whole body rises for his touch, only to be thwarted again and again. That, more than anything else, is the proof that Dorian should have ended this affair long ago, however enjoyable it's been.

But Cullen begins circling him this time, and that aborts some of Dorian's anger. Impossible not to be hyperaware of him, when he is so close. Impossible not to notice, as he circles, that he is fixed on Dorian in a way that has usually promised an especially good evening, on previous occasions.

Except then he says, "Did you think I would let you go back to Tevinter without me?"

And Dorian's so stunned by this, so utterly floored by it, that he just stands there while Cullen stops behind him. Then he finds his tongue. "You -- " Oh, Maker. "You came here to pray about _whether to come with me_?"

"Yes."

Dorian's first thought is, _Oh blessed Andraste, yes_. And then he fucking _thinks_ , really thinks about what Tevinter is like and how his peers would react to having a southerner and an ex-Templar among them -- "Sweet Maker, no."

A hand comes around Dorian, cupping his chin, tilting his head back. There is warmth against his back, and now a soft, low voice in his ear. "Did you think I would let you say no?"

Dorian snarls and pulls away -- Cullen allows this -- and turns to glare at him. "This isn't one of our games, Commander. This is _Tevinter_. My enemies won't even bother poisoning you, they'll just strike you down in the bloody street!"

Cullen is irritatingly calm. "I am the Commander of the _victorious_ armies of the Inquisition," he says. It's almost gentle. "I am advisor to the new Templars, and best friend of the new Divine. In Tevinter, I would be a living representation of the Inquisition's regard for you -- and a warning that the southern Chantry is watching." He pauses. "And that is _beside_ the fact that I've retained some of my Templar abilities, and can still Smite well enough to stagger an average mage. When I don't just run them through."

That is... Dorian blinks. Cullen is right. That network of powerful connections will prevent anyone wise from challenging Cullen to duels or moving overtly against him, and Cullen's own skills will intimidate the unwise. But. "Well, then, I was wrong, they _will_ use poison," he snaps. "Or assassins, or untraceable spells, or just a shiv in the shadows! And that's on top of what they'll be sending for _me._ The result is you dead, either way."

Cullen steps forward again. Herding him. Dorian both loves and hates it when Cullen does this, because it _works_ and Dorian despises being in any way comparable to southern mages. Cullen wants him closer to the statue, on the bedroll, but stubbornly Dorian sets his feet and doesn't back up. Cullen simply cups Dorian's face in his hands, sliding along his jaw to thread fingers into his hair. He leans close to nuzzle Dorian's ear. It makes Dorian shiver, though he resists out of sheer pride. There is nothing more dangerous than a southern Templar, already trained to dominate, who has also learned to seduce.

"All the more reason for you to need a bodyguard," Cullen says, in his ear.

Dorian stiffens again, and Cullen takes this opportunity to pull him closer, tilt his head, and plant a kiss on the tendon just beneath is jaw. Dorian inhales in spite of himself, overcome with two impulses. He reacts to the one that troubles him more. "You are the Commander of the Inquisition armies, you cannot be a _bodyguard_."

Cullen sighs against his skin. "Then call me the captain of your guard. Whatever title your countrymen will respect, and which will permit me unquestioned access to your bed at night."

And then Dorian sees it, in his head. Riding back into Tevinter at the head of the escort that Josephine will almost surely assign him -- she knows the power of such things even more than Cullen, or Dorian himself for that matter. Cullen resplendent on a charger beside him -- a nice dark brown beast, since that sets off his coloring so well. Dorian himself will need to be especially done up to compare. A white horse, maybe, for the irony? And could he perhaps commission Vivienne's tailor for something appropriate? He'll have to check his funds, but even if it beggars him, he must do it. All eyes must go to them as they ride into the Consular Square in Minrathous. Dorian would arrange to greet his father there, on the steps of the Magisterium, for a public welcoming-home. Halward loves that sort of thing; of course he would agree. Then all of Tevinter society would see that Magister Halward's wayward son has returned, with the Inquisition and southern Chantry at his back and the Venatori driven before him as broken, humbled nothings. Would they wonder, seeing Cullen and knowing his mage-hating reputation, how an Altus of Tevinter has somehow tamed Meredith's Fist? Or would they, knowing _Dorian's_ reputation, wonder who has tamed whom...?

But that wouldn't matter, would it? With a little shiver of awe, Dorian belatedly realizes _no one would care_. Half the Magisterium would offer up their own arses to Cullen if it would get them connections to the Inquisitor. Dorian snorts at the notion. As if any of those perfumed weaklings could _survive_ Cullen's attentions --

Cullen has turned Dorian away again, standing behind him as they both face Andraste. From behind he has been unbuckling Dorian's tunic, with the deftness of much practice. It is exquisite in its blasphemousness, and Dorian can hardly believe it. Cullen means to have him, right here on the floor, in the bloody chapel of Andraste. Yes; next to the bedroll is a small flask of Dorian's favorite massage oil, which puts the lie to Cullen's insistence that he didn't plan this. Well, Dorian has bathed and performed his usual toilette, since he'd been anticipating an active evening, so...

He blinks. Realizes, at last, that there is a method to Cullen's madness, for once.

"You came here to pray for guidance," he says. Cullen has gotten the tunic unfastened and is peeling it off Dorian slowly. Dorian is momentarily unvoiced when Cullen slides a hand down the centerline of his torso, from the divot between his collarbones to the fastening of his pants, in a torturously slow caress. He does not, as Dorian half expects, slide the hand into Dorian's pants. Instead he goes over the leather, finding Dorian's somewhat confused cock and rolling the heel of his hand against it in a firm, expert massage. Dorian shudders despite everything and lets himself rest against the warm, bare body behind him.

 _Focus_. Dorian swallows, tries to make himself think. "You... You came to _ask Andraste_ whether you should go to Tevinter with me?"

Cullen kisses him again while his fingers etch out and tease the head of Dorian's cock through the leather of his pants. "I asked Her to give me a sign," he says against Dorian's skin, "and then you walked in."

Maker. "And if I hadn't come here...?"

"I would have known to let you go."

There but for the grace of Dorian's antisocial tendencies. Dorian tries to think more, but Cullen knows his body, and Dorian's cock is no longer confused. In apparent satisfaction with this changed state of affairs, Cullen finally unlaces Dorian's trousers and eases them down. Slowly. Making a show of it. Dorian groans in consternation even as he eagerly toes off his own shoes. He's panting when he speaks.

"S-so you -- " Cullen bites him at the juncture of neck and trapezius. It's gentle, but he deliberately angles his mouth to use one of his canines, and the sting of it makes Dorian gasp. "So you b-bargained, is that it? If I didn't show up, you would have left me." It hurts to think of this. It alarms him that this hurts. "If I showed up, though, you would f-follow me to Tevinter? And what else?" Pretend that the statue is Meredith, and that he is seducing a Tevinter mage for her pleasure? Offer him up for Leliana's or Josephine's entertainment? Dorian pulls himself from the spell of Cullen's hands enough to scan the wall behind the statue for viewing-holes.

"If you came here," Cullen says, and now he is kissing the still-stinging area that he bit, "I promised Her that I would help you pray."

That sounds suspiciously simple. Dorian tries to fathom the trick of it while Cullen eases Dorian's pants down enough that he can just step out of them. Now they're both naked, Dorian's bare toes tangling in the fur fo the bedroll. Cullen has oiled his hands meanwhile, and now he slides both over Dorian's chest to find the little gold rings in each of his nipples. Dorian can be driven to orgasm with nipples alone. Cullen has done this to him, a few times, and he's learned by now that Dorian adores most of all a very gentle toying -- little circlings and occasional twists and light flickers, accentuated by tugs against the rings which cause an answering pull deep in Dorian's groin. Dorian bites his lip, but though he tries to stay focused, Cullen _knows_ him. Cullen has spent months learning how to reduce Dorian to a useless, mindless heap. If there is a magic school for the art of wrecking one's lover, Cullen is surely its master.

"Blessed Andraste," Cullen whispers. His fingers gently tug at one nipple ring, while his hand pumps a matching rhythm along Dorian's cock. "Marvel at perfection."

Dorian's so lost in it that for a moment he doesn't understand. His mind half reaches for the rest of the verse: _Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting; you have brought sin to heaven, and doom upon the world_. Cullen is praying. But no, he didn't finish the verse --

"Is he not lovely?" Cullen has let go the nipple, probably because Dorian has begun to moan and shake in the first throes of an imminent orgasm. He's slid that hand up, and now one slightly-oily finger is in Dorian's mouth. Dorian suckles him helplessly, and hears Cullen's breath quicken. "Does he not please even Your eye?"

 _Wait, what?_ But then Cullen sweeps his feet and deftly bears him to the bedroll, and Dorian loses the thread of the thought for a time beneath the storm of Cullen's hands and mouth and weight.

And then he is standing on his knees -- facing Andraste, always, Cullen is only half here, his eyes glazed with devouring Dorian, but he continually makes certain to turn Dorian thus. Dorian is bent forward, trapped in the hard circle of one of Cullen's arms, and Cullen is inside him. This is not their usual sort of thing at all. Usually Cullen holds Dorian down and tries his level best to drive Dorian through the floor, or the bed, or the door, or whatever surface they're using in the moment. He likes the sound of Dorian whimpering in helpless release, the sounds of violence, the sounds of the door jolting or the bed frame creaking or the floorboards groaning. He likes it when everything from Dorian to the laws of physics quiver in submission to his strength. Now, though, he's going slowly -- driving steadily, and driving deep, and given the angle driving Dorian half mad. But he isn't trying to hurt Dorian this time. He isn't making the room jolt, or Dorian's whole body shake so powerfully that occasionally he musters the wit to worry about concussions. (Then he relaxes and enjoys.) It is delicious, this gentleness. Subtle in its cruelty. He's kept Dorian on the brink for what feels like hours. And it is all very, very strange.

Dorian doesn't think about it. He relaxes and enjoys, and prays -- ha! -- that he will not come too soon and spoil the game. But he is not at all surprised when, as Cullen's breath starts to roughen, his true nature begins to edge out from beneath whatever curtain he's thrown over it. He fucks harder, and then twitches and resumes gentler movements. He bites Dorian on the back of one shoulderblade, and Dorian feels the tremor of his jaws as he fights the urge to break skin. He wins that battle, but then his free hand creeps up Dorian's chest, blunt fingers curving like claws against Dorian's skin, pressing hard enough to bruise -- and then he stops, fingers twitching on Dorian's collarbone, groaning softly with the effort of suppressing whatever need is rampant within him.

It isn't right. It isn't _Cullen_. And it isn't what Dorian craves, either. How could it be? He has gotten used to having a lover who does not hold back, and does not treat Dorian as some delicate hothouse flower. It is a thrill to be the focus of Cullen's ferocity -- like mounting a spirited, magnificent racehorse that could throw and kill you, but what a ride until then! It is... reassuring, even, to look at himself the next day and see the marks of teeth, the bruises of fingers; to sit and feel the twinge of overuse. Dorian is never more satisfied, never more certain of his own strength, than when Cullen is holding him down and gripping his hair and whispering sweet brutalities in his ear.

So Dorian works an arm free and grabs that abortively grasping hand, intuiting at once what Cullen needs. He pulls that hand up, and pushes Cullen's fingers to close around his own throat.

Oh, yes. Cullen's rhythm stutters; Dorian hears the catch-and-quicken of his breath. Oh, _yes_. Cullen knows Dorian, but Dorian also knows him, and he knows that the knives inside Cullen can't be shut away in a drawer so easily. And they are such exquisitely crafted knives, aren't they? He bites, but then licks away the blood. He uses Dorian hard, but never comes first. He kisses like the Maker returning to the world, like Dorian is the only battlefield he has not yet conquered -- but Cullen does not _mean_ to conquer it. He likes the fight. He craves the violence and Dorian's forced submission and the release of some part of his morality, as much as anything else. In his soul, Cullen has never left the Gallows and never will.

He is a monster. But why should that trouble Dorian? Dorian simply _adores_ monsters.

So when Cullen's hand twitches with uncertainty, Dorian tightens his grip on Cullen's fingers. That is all it takes, of course, because the impulse is there anyway, isn't it? And as Cullen's hand tightens further, his thrusts quicken because he _likes_ this, oh Maker how he loves hurting Dorian, he bends Dorian lower so he can hear the sound of slapping flesh, and his breath seems to come harder as Dorian fights for air of his own. Tighter and Dorian begins to worry that he's made a mistake, because his vision is darkening -- oh, and Cullen likes that, too, doesn't he, that whiff of Dorian's fear? But there is a sweetness down below, Dorian realizes through the almost-but-not-quite panic; this is what keeps the panic at bay. An orgasm is building, and it feels better than it's ever been, tightening and gathering around the quickening rhythm of Cullen inside him, electric as an impending storm. _I'm going to die_ , he thinks clearly, and in the next instant he thinks, _Don't stop, you bloody lunatic, or I'll kill you_ , and really, Cullen's not the only monster in the room, is he? The chapel has gone bizarrely silent: no moaning, no fucking sounds, Dorian can't even hear his own breath wheezing out. His face is somehow in the bedroll now, the pleasure is all that is left of him, that and Cullen's hand which is still _tightening_ but his other hand is feverishly working Dorian's cock and

 

 

 

Wait. He _can_ hear. It's the sound of his own pulse.

 

 

 

The hand on his throat lets go. The taste of air is sweet, but somehow distant.

 

 

 

and then he slams back into himself and he is COMING, blessed Andraste at the Maker's side, the walls of the very Fade are falling in upon him, he is losing his MIND with it, he tries to scream with what little breath is in his lungs and manages only a whine, he has forgotten his own NAME

and then he is back in the world, twitching with helpless aftershocks. Through it all he sucks breath after desperate breath into his aching lungs, barely aware of anything else even as Cullen presses harder into him once, again, again, and one final time with a soft groan and, "Andraste _save_ me." Dorian lies there in a stupor. Just a thing. Just the receptacle for the other man's lust. Cullen resumes fucking him after a moment, but that's only because he's still hard; opportunism, not need. It's gentler because of this, and his hands move over Dorian's body in a slow pattern that is remarkably soothing even though every sensation is an overstimulation.

Finally, though, Cullen has had enough, and he stops. He's still in Dorian when he leans forward to examine Dorian's throat with his fingers. Dorian wants to tell him it's fine, but he can't muster the words. He can only look back, hoping to convey it wordlessly, when Cullen looks into his eyes. He wants Cullen to stay inside him, too, even though he's sore and he can feel Cullen softening rapidly, but after a moment Cullen sighs and pulls back and then Dorian is alone inside his skin. It's too big for him, but he has no choice; he will endure.

The bedroll smells like bear and old woman. Dorian thinks this, and has enough presence of mind to be amused by the idea of Mother Giselle having to sleep on Dorian's leavings, while Cullen moves away and then comes back with some kind of cloth to mop him up. Cullen wipes up Dorian's spend, too; damn. There follows then a period of unutterable tenderness, wherein Cullen kisses his throat and gazes into his eyes before draping an arm over him, and then they just lie together for a while, in silence. Words are too much for the moment to bear.

But after a while Cullen sits up alongside him. He is still caressing Dorian, rubbing his own sweat into Dorian's skin because he knows Dorian likes that, but he's also _still_ angling Dorian for some sort of display -- moving his arm aside to bare one flank, and tugging Dorian's spent cock up to lie artfully over one thigh, and that is really just the limit.

"What _are_ you doing, Commander?" he asks at last. His voice comes out a little rough, but it isn't too bad. Cullen is strong enough to crush a man's larynx, but he held back enough not to. That's the part that matters.

Cullen, to his credit, doesn't prevaricate this time. "I prayed to Andraste for guidance. Whether I should stay or go with you. If She gave me a sign that I should go with you, however, I promised to help you pray." He ducks his eyes, and there is a blush upon his cheeks, though that could just be the remnant of exertion. "Prayer is... praise and adoration given unto the divine. It need not be done in words."

Dorian stares. There is a little smile on Cullen's lips, but otherwise he is completely serious. He has made an _offering_ of Dorian, oiling him up and bending him over and making a show of his delight, for the pleasure of the bloody _statue_. For Andraste -- who, after all, is said to have enjoyed the attentions of two husbands and a few paramours on the side, in the more blasphemous tales.

At first Dorian is actually scandalized. He's not a devout man, but _really_. And then Cullen's fingers wave over the sleek ripples of Dorian's abdomen, lingering on the marks he has made here and there, and Dorian sees the utter fascination in Cullen's face. It hits him then: Cullen thinks he is worthy of a goddess' admiration. _Marvel at perfection_ , indeed. Well, he hopes She enjoyed the show.

He would grin and tease the commander mercilessly about it, but for the faint wrinkle of a frown between Cullen's brows. Dorian frowns too, trying to understand it. It takes only a moment, though. Cullen keeps glancing at his throat, where doubtless a lovely hand-shaped bruise is beginning to develop. There is both satisfaction and shame in his gaze.

So Dorian puts on a smile and stretches. This reminds him of all his other bruises and small injuries -- less than usual, really, since Cullen was trying so hard to be gentle. They twinge, though, so Dorian hisses at the sting of them, and... yes. Cullen looks away in shame.

"I must commend you," Dorian says, with studied carelessness. "I daresay we can't do it often, since I rather relish complete brain function, but the throttling was lovely. Perfectly done, too."

Yes, that's an out-and-out frown, now. Cullen fixes his gaze on the middle distance. "I had hoped to restrain -- " He sighs. "I had not meant our prayer to be tainted by... by my sinful... _impulses_."

Our prayer. It is lovely, romantic framing for the completely depraved thing they've just done, and it makes Dorian's heart swell with pride for him. Cullen has come so far from the days when Dorian thought him just a simple, if lovely, barbarian. He really will thrive, now, in Tevinter.

"Why?" Dorian rolls over onto his belly, though he makes sure to stay nestled up against Cullen. Now, though, Andraste can see the clean lines of his back and the curves of his rather shapely ass, if he does say so himself. If they're going to show him off, they should do it properly. "It isn't as though Andraste was without sin herself. Two husbands, remember? I mean, certainly they had a sort of arrangement, but -- "

A muscle in Cullen's jaw works. "It is enough that I... I _imagine_ doing such things to you. To actually _act_ on those imaginings, now, here -- "

Dorian leans over to nudge Cullen with his shoulder. "Means that you gave me what I wanted."

Cullen blinks. Dorian sees the moment when his pupils expand slightly, as he realizes that yes, Dorian _did_ want to be throttled. And that Dorian is languid and satisfied now, amused rather than traumatized. He shakes his head in wonder and disbelief. "I could have killed you."

 _Oh, like that's ever stopped you before._ But Dorian is not so foolish as to say this aloud. "But you didn't."

"I _could_ have."

Dorian sighs. "Yes. But you didn't. And that is why I haven't set your hair on fire."

Cullen falls silent with the collapse of his argument, and Dorian lays his head down on his folded arms. He is all-over contentment, bone-deep and heavy, and he wants to sleep here, beneath Andraste's benevolent gaze. He wants to tell Cullen that he agrees with Cullen's ideas -- both that Cullen will be an asset in Tevinter, and that pleasure was a good offering to make. Surely a prayer made for love has more impact if that love is a demonstrable thing, rather than mere words.

Because it must be love, mustn't it? Like Cullen would upend his life and travel to Tevinter to be an arrogant mage's guard captain -- no, no, too proletarian, Dorian will think of a better title for him, like _primus_ , yes, Dorian's Primus -- for anything less. Like Dorian would pray for a way to be with him, and exult that a way has been found, for anything less.

But he's exhausted, because Cullen has literally fucked him half to death, so the only thing he can muster wit to ask is, "Will we be disturbed before morning?"

Cullen shakes his head. "I barred the door."

"How thoughtful of you." So he relaxes. Hopefully Cullen will sleep, too.

After a long while, Cullen murmurs, "Thank you," and lies down alongside Dorian. It is not a thanks aimed at him.

 _Yes,_ Dorian thinks, gazing at the smooth lines of the statue before the drapes of sleep fall shut about his consciousness. It is a prayer. _Thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> And here I thought I was done with this story. But I was inspired by [an absolutely lovely bit of fanart,](http://mrnicholas.tumblr.com/post/146032195145/romance-card-i-didnt-want-to-make-it-like) and by cypheroftyr's continued raving about TBTL, so here we are again. It's been a while since I wrote any fanfic, so I feel a bit rusty; apologies that this isn't up to my usual standard. Hope you like, anyway.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Proof of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890777) by [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess)




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